Of Luthien's Choice
by roseverv
Summary: I guess you can say this is a short story about goodbyes-Lúthien saying goodbye to Beren, to immortality and the Blessed Realm, to her parents. For everyone who's ever wondered if Lúthien wrestled between her choices-to cast her fate among the Eldar or with Men.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's characters or the story of Beren and Lúthien. Also, there are some lines in here that are inspired by Tolkien, Lewis, Rowling.

The stars were cold and dim above Lúthien as she stood on the balcony of the wooden house built far aloft between the shafts of Hírilorn, the great beech of Neldoreth. Once the house had been her prison, but now it served as a lookout point as she waited for the hunting party to return. She caught glimpses of firelight between the trees below and swallowed hard. The bell rang, announcing the return of the hunting party, but there was no singing to welcome its members. She watched the Gate open. Two thick beech trees formed the archway of the Gate, their necks having grown toward each other and intertwined. Branches and flowering vines had reached out and met halfway between the trees, curling into a solid mass none could pass through unless the King and Queen willed it. The branches and vines unwound from their meeting place, until the space under the archway was open, and the hunting party passed through the Gate. Four Elves carried a bier of branches with two bodies upon it: the slim shape of an Elf or Man—it was too dark for her to discern which—and the familiar shape of Huan the Hound. The Elves around the bier carried torches, and their faces flickered in the light—mouths downcast, eyes weary, some cheeks still wet. Lúthien searched the flickering faces for Beren's, but she saw only Elves—long hair, pointed ears, high cheekbones. The body upon the bier—

"No," she said, her voice so small and soft only Huan could have heard it. _No. It cannot be him._

She took a deep breath to steady herself, but it did not work; the breath became lodged somewhere between her mouth and her lungs. She went down to meet the hunting party. The ladders had been replaced with a wooden staircase curling around the middle trunk of Hírilorn, and she descended slowly, somberly, but the speed of her steps could not stop her doom, only slightly prolong it. They met at the foot of the great tree. The Elves—her father and Beleg among them—carefully lowered the bier to the ground. And Lúthien beheld the face of her beloved, her Beren, lying on the bier, and she brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes beginning to burn and her shoulders beginning to shake.

"Beren," she said in a strangled voice, before falling to her knees beside him.

"He is not dead yet, Lúthien," her father said. "He lingers still to say farewell."

She saw the weak rise and fall of Beren's chest and tenderly touched his cheek—it was hot, feverish. "Beren," she said again, still touching his cheek. Her tears tracked silently down her face and neck. "Wake up. I am here."

His dark eyes fluttered in response, but then, seeing her face, his eyes widened, and he forced them to stay open. "Tinúviel," he said, and his breathing was so laboured, his lungs, she guessed, so full of blood that her name became three separate words, rather than three syllables. But he smiled weakly as he spoke and pressed his cheek more firmly against her hand. They simply looked at each other for a long moment, and then she leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. When she pulled back, both of their faces were wet with both of their tears.

"Wait for me beyond the Western Sea," she told him. "I will come to you."

Beren did not respond, only looked into her eyes for a handful of seconds—_not long enough, not nearly long enough_—until the life left him. She watched him receive the Gift of Ilúvatar, but it did not feel like a gift in that moment, when his eyes continued to stare but no longer saw and his lungs released a breath but refused to draw another.

"Beren," she said, her hands now moving to his shoulders. No response. "Beren," she said again, her breathing cutting his name in half. No response. "Beren," she said, one last time, shaking his shoulders. Still no response.

She laid her head on his chest and wept, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his tunic, and then there was a sudden pain at her breast, sharp and pointed and fiercer than any pain she had ever felt, and then she fell into a black nothingness.

-.-.-.-

The impenetrable dark lasted only a few seconds, and Lúthien wondered if this was what Arda had looked like before Elbereth had fashioned the stars and scattered them in the sky, stars that now pinwheeled above her, brighter and closer than ever before, a swirl of white light that left her breathless but not dizzy—she opened her eyes to a room that was both unfamiliar and familiar. Unfamiliar, in that she knew she had never seen the room before, but familiar in that she knew exactly where she was and that the room was hers.

"Lúthien Tinúviel," a soft, clear voice said, and she looked at Nienna—for somehow she knew it was indeed Nienna—sitting beside her bed. "Welcome to the Halls of Mandos."

-.-.-.-

Lúthien knew that time did not move for her as it moved for Beren, and indeed, time did not move in Mandos as it had moved in Arda. She did not know how long she had wandered the long, firelit halls of Mandos, following the woven story of Arda that clothed the walls, before she came to the Great Hall where Mandos sat as Judge. She passed under a tall stone archway framed by pillars of fire and into a cavernous room with a high ceiling. It was the plainest, most sobering great hall she had ever been in, but also one of the most elegant and noble—all stone walls and wooden buttresses, with no adornment, save for the maroon banners hanging behind Mandos' throne and the torches mounted on the walls. The Vala nodded in greeting, watching her with dark, impassive eyes as she made her way to the foot of his seat. She dropped into a low curtsy. "Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elwë and Melian the Maia," Mandos said, his voice as deep as the abyss, as old as time itself, "welcome to my halls."

She thanked him and offered to sing for him, because there was nothing else she could do—she had nothing else to give him, and throughout all of her wandering, she had not found Beren. She was grateful when Mandos accepted her offer. She knelt before him and sang many things—the sorrow of the Eldar as they watched the world grow old, the grief of Men as they bloomed and withered as quickly as spring flowers, the twin themes of the Children of Ilúvatar and their separate fates. She sang the wonder of Arda spinning beneath countless stars and the cold frost of winter putting Neldoreth to sleep and the riots of flowers bursting from the cold ground in the spring. And as she sang these things, her tears fell like rain to water the feet of Mandos and the stone floor.

When she at last finished her song, she dried Mandos' feet with her dark hair and looked up at him. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes wet. "Stand, Lúthien Tinúviel," he said, "and know that it is not for nothing you are named Tinúviel." As she stood, he addressed the Maia at the door to his hall. "Bring Beren son of Barahir hither at once."

Lúthien's heart seemed to drop down to her stomach, and she could feel her heartbeat there, wild and pulsing, as she waited for the sound of incoming feet. She did not turn around, instead keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Mandos, until she heard Beren cry, "Tinúviel!" That day was a mirror image to the day they first met—the stones of the hall echoed her name as the woods had done, and she halted in wonder and slowly turned around to face Beren, who came to her and took her hands in his, running his thumbs over her knuckles.

She stared up at him. "You waited," she said.

One corner of his mouth kicked up. "You bade me to."

They shared a smile and then turned to face Mandos once more, now standing side-by-side but no longer touching. The Vala looked more grieved than when she had first finished her song, and Lúthien swallowed hard, feeling as though someone had reached inside her chest and seized her heart. "I do not have the power to withhold the spirits of Men that die within Arda," Mandos said, "nor do I have the power to change the fates of the Two Kindreds. Death is the Gift of Ilúvatar to Men, and I cannot take it back." Beren reached for her hand, and she clung to his tightly. _How can I be parted from him again? How can I say a second farewell?_ "But you have moved me to pity, so I shall seek the counsel of Manwë."

And so, it came to pass that Lúthien met Manwë, Lord of the Air, at the cliffs of Valinor overlooking the Outer Sea. She was standing near the edge of a cliff, the grass beneath her feet peppered with yellow flowers, looking out at the water when Manwë came to her, and so great was his majesty and splendor that she immediately fell to her knees before him. His hair and face were fair, his eyes the colour of the sky on the edge of night, his skin faintly glowing, as if embers burned just beneath the surface.

"Rise, Lúthien Tinúviel," he said, and she did so. "I have come to offer you two choices. The first is this. Because of your labours and sorrow, you may be released from the Halls of Mandos and come to Valimar, where you shall dwell among us until the world's end. There you shall forget all griefs that your life has known, but thither Beren cannot go. Even the Valar do not have the power to withhold Death from him, because it is the Gift of Ilúvatar to Men. The second is this. You may return to the Hither Lands to dwell there once more and take with you Beren. But there you shall not be guaranteed either life or joy. There you shall be mortal and subject to a second death, as he is."

As Manwë spoke of a second death, Lúthien's eyes wandered down the edge of a nearby cliff—it was called the Last Journey of Men, with stairs carved into the rock face that led down to the sandy beach below, where Men boarded thin, pale boats and sailed past the edge of the world. None knew what happened to them once they left the shore.

"And if you choose this doom," Manwë continued, "you shall forsake the Blessed Realm and lay down any claim to kinship with those who dwell here or will dwell here. These are your choices, and you must decide what your doom shall be. I shall wait in the Great Hall of Mandos for your answer."

And with that, Manwë left her alone at the edge of the Outer Sea. She stared out at the water and watched the ripples left by the wind. She faced two possible futures: a certain one without Beren or an uncertain one with him. If she forgot all griefs, would she forget Beren? The thought seemed too horrible to even entertain. And she had heard countless tales from her mother of Valimar, the City of the Valar—the Two Trees of Valinor, before they were destroyed, and the golden streets. She had been dreaming of it since she was young. She had been willing to forsake Menegroth for Beren, to wander in the wilderness should he forsake the Quest of the Silmaril. But she had known that she would reach the white shores of Valinor one day and be reunited with her kin. There was one aspect of a future with Beren that was certain: she would never see the white shores nor her kin again if she chose mortality.

_With whom do I cast my fate—with the Eldar or with Men? _She thought of her mother brushing her hair out of her face, telling her tales of Valinor, teaching her to sing in such a way to awaken the woods from their winter slumber. She thought of her father teaching her the constellations when she was young, teaching her to ride and to hunt, laughing joyfully as she sang the world awake. She thought of Beren jumping in front of her to take Curufin's arrow, spending countless nights with her beneath countless stars, cutting a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth himself.

Lúthien saw no end to the sea but knew that there must be one. Ilúvatar would not make Men row on for eternity, looking for a land that did not exist. If it was even a land that they sailed to—perhaps the sea, the world, simply ended, and Men fell over the edge, out of time and into starlight. During the first spring Lúthien and Beren spent together, when they met in secret, her mother had looked at her with immeasurable sadness. "I catch a glimpse of doom in your eyes at times," Melian had said, "and in it, there is a parting beyond the end of the world that comes between us."

_And beyond the edge of the world_, Lúthien thought. _I will never see them again. _

And then she sank to her knees, weeping, because she knew which doom she would choose, but she did not know if she could bear the consequences of it.

-.-.-.-

When her tears had slowed and her hands had steadied, Lúthien returned to the Halls of Mandos and made her way to the Great Hall. Manwë was sitting on the throne, and Mandos stood to his left. Lúthien knelt before them and looked up into their faces, feeling very small against their combined might.

"Which doom do you choose?" Manwë asked.

In her mind's eye, she saw her parents standing in the starlit glade of Nan Elmoth—Thingol, with his fair hair shining silver under the light of the stars, and Melian, with her face shining with the light of Aman. They looked deeply into each other's eyes as they held hands, and around them, the trees grew tall, branches reaching for the sky, and above them, the stars spun. She had only heard the story of their meeting once, but she had never forgotten it. Then, still in her mind's eye, she saw herself meeting Beren in the woods of Doriath, laughing and running as they went through the woods together in secret and the trees shook off their long slumber.

_Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Mother. _Lúthien took a deep breath and answered, "I choose to cast my fate with Men, to return to Middle-earth and dwell there once more with Beren."

"So be it," Manwë said.

-.-.-.-

Lúthien met Beren on the white shores facing Middle-earth. He stood by a slender grey boat. They ran to each other and embraced for a long moment, his arms around her waist and her arms around his neck. She buried her face in the spot where his shoulder met his neck. Eventually, they let go of each other and walked to the boat. Lúthien stepped in and sat facing Valinor, while Beren pushed the boat along the sand and into the water and then joined her. She watched Valinor fade into cloud and mist as Beren rowed.

"Are you certain this is what you want?" he asked her.

She nodded. "I am not willing to be parted from you again. Whatever griefs may lie in wait, our dooms shall be alike."

-.-.-.-

They returned to Beleriand and journeyed together as living man and woman, their griefs forgotten. They wandered different woods and slept under stars, and after a time, they turned towards Doriath. When they entered the Hidden Kingdom, those that saw them followed them, their faces torn between fear and joy. Beren and Lúthien walked arm-in-arm through the woods, and Lúthien greeted each Elf she saw with a closed-lip smile and a tilt of her head. She felt strangely calm, strangely peaceful, walking among the kin she had forsaken, and she wondered if they could see the mortality in her face, smell it on her skin. She had returned to Middle-earth as a mortal, but she still looked and felt like an Elf.

Her steps slowed when she saw the Gate of Menegroth, her feet suddenly leaden, but Beren whispered a word of encouragement and they continued forward together. The bell sounded, as high and clear as the note of a nightingale. The branches and flowering vines from the two beech trees unwound from each other, creating open space for Beren and Lúthien to pass through. Their entourage still followed them, though at a greater distance than before.

Lúthien paused when they reached the Door to Menegroth. She knew her parents were waiting for them inside, and she knew she must go in to them, must bid them farewell—the consequences of the doom she had chosen. When they had first returned to Middle-earth, Beren had asked her if she wished to go to Menegroth. "Not yet," she had answered. As they journeyed to the Hidden Kingdom, he had asked her if she wished to remain in Menegroth and dwell there. "No, I think not," she had answered. She could not bear the thought of her parents watching her grow old and withered while they remained the same as they had always been, could not bear the thought of them burying her.

"Lúthien?" Beren asked, drawing her out of her reverie. "We shall do this together."

"Together," she repeated, nodding, and then they went through the Door and followed the winding paths deep within the hill to the Great Hall—a hall as high and cavernous as Mandos', but with pillars hewn in the likeness of beech trees and lit with golden lanterns, a fountain of silver, and woven hangings on the walls.

When they entered the hall, she was surprised to find it empty, save her parents, sitting tall and proud on their thrones. Her mother watched her, looking at once both sorrowful and joyful, but her father stared blankly at the wall across from their thrones. He reminded Lúthien of the woods slumbering during winter, the ground and the trunks of trees covered in a thin layer of frost, the branches shining when light hit the ice that sheathed them. She let go of Beren's arm, walked forward, and then knelt before her father. She took his hands in hers and was not surprised to find them very pale and cold, so she brought them to her mouth and breathed on them. Almost immediately, he began to thaw, like a riot of flowers bursting from the cold ground or the trees shaking their stiff branches and stretching them up to the sun.

"Lúthien," he said, and his lips cracked into a smile. "You have returned."

She gave him a small, sad smile. "Only for a short while, Father."

At that, Thingol's smile turned sad. He stood, and as he did so, he pulled Lúthien to her feet. "Then, let us rejoice for a short while," he said.

He did not ask why her visit was to be short, but perhaps he already knew. Lúthien turned to her mother, who was now standing as well. She let go of her father's hands and stepped in front of Melian, her grey eyes falling to the palace floor—dirt packed so firmly it looked almost like brown stone. Despite the firm packing, small flowers ringed the thrones of Thingol and Melian. Lúthien could not look into her mother's face, but Melian seemed to know that and, after a beat, gently took Lúthien's hands. Lúthien's hands were already trembling, and she found her mother's were as well. They were both afraid of what Melian would read in her eyes.

Slowly, Lúthien raised her eyes to her mother's face and met her gaze. Melian's eyes were the colour of beech tree leaves—a deep, lively green. Lúthien had inherited her father's eyes, which she had always been glad of, because something ancient and strange and alluring dwelt in Melian's eyes. The longer one looked into those eyes, the deeper one sunk into them, and the deeper, Lúthien had long thought, Melian saw into the one looking. It was a horrible experience, and one wanted to look away, wanted to cover oneself against the blinding bareness, but it was strangely alluring as well, and it became near impossible to look away. Lúthien was certain her mother read things in creatures' eyes that most could not and that most would not wish to. Lúthien heard her mother inhale sharply through her nose, felt her drop her hands suddenly, as if they burned her, and the spell of Melian's gaze snapped as she turned away. Lúthien felt as though the warmth had been leeched not only out of the room, but out of her very bones and blood.

She was breathing hard and quick through her mouth, but her heart would not slow and her lungs would not take in enough breath. "Mother?" she said.

Melian had turned to the side and pressed her hands to her mouth. After a long moment, Melian took a deep breath—Lúthien saw her shoulders rise and fall. Then, Melian lowered her hands and spoke. "I have read the doom in your eyes, and it is no longer a passing glimpse." Melian turned to face Lúthien again, and her cheeks were wet and her lips trembling. "The parting beyond the end of the world has come."

"Forgive me, Mother," Lúthien said, her voice half a whisper.

Melian reached out and touched her cheek. Lúthien was the first to begin crying in earnest, and then her mother pulled her to her, wetting Lúthien's hair with her own tears, and then Thingol put his arms about both of them. Her family stood there, clinging to each other as they wept.

-.-.-.-

Lúthien and Beren had arrived in Menegroth mid-spring and remained there until the long summer waned. The Elves of Doriath wanted to host a celebration in their honour before their departure, but Lúthien and Beren simply bid her parents farewell and slipped away in the middle of the night. Halfway between the palace and Hírilorn was a place where the beech trees thinned out and the stars rained light. It was in that place that Lúthien stopped walking and tipped her chin up to look at the stars shining brightly overhead. She spun in a slow circle, taking in the sight of a sky pinpricked with thousands of stars. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed deeply, imagining the starlight filling her lungs. She would miss these stars, these trees, these Elves. But she had opened her eyes already, had completed her circle already and was now facing Beren, who was watching her with a smile. _Our fates are joined—now and forever_. She returned the smile and reached for his hand, and the two of them continued on their way.

They paused in front of the Gate of Menegroth and passed through once the way had cleared. They watched it close—the branches and flowering vines of each beech tree twisting in the air, twining together with their counterparts until the Gate was solid and impassable once more. A blue and silver flower had fallen off during the process. Beren picked it up and tucked it behind Lúthien's ear.

"There," he said with a soft smile, his hand now cupping her cheek. "Now a part of Menegroth journeys with us."

She looked up at him. "I love you."

He returned the words and then kissed her. Lúthien looked at the Gate one last time, said a final farewell, and then turned away. Her hand found Beren's, and together they passed through the Hidden Kingdom. She did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Some stories get under your skin and stick with you long after you finish reading them—Beren and Lúthien's story is one such story for me. I first read the _Silm_ in my undergrad – in a Lewis and Tolkien class, and it got so deep under my skin that I chose to write this story for my major project. I wrestled—and am still wrestling—with Lúthien's choice to become mortal, to forsake the Blessed Realm and her kin in order to return to Middle-earth with Beren. When I first read their story, I thought she made the wrong choice. She gave up so much to be with Beren, and at first, I couldn't see past those losses. But as I continued wrestling—alone, with peers and my prof, during class discussion, I came to find her choice to be much deeper, richer, and more joyful than I had originally imagined. As Tolkien writes of the third theme of Ilúvatar in the _Ainulindalë, _Lúthien's choice—and indeed Beren and Lúthien's story as a whole—is "deep and wide and beautiful, but . . . blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came."

My prof gave me the idea of writing a portion of Beren and Lúthien's story from Lúthien's point of view. And, so, that's what I did: take a portion from Tolkien's narrative, flesh it out, and breath some of my own life into it. I have borrowed phrasing or images from Scripture, from Lewis, from Tolkien, from Rowling. I wrote this piece to get into Lúthien's head, to make her wrestle with the choice as much as I did, because I don't believe it was an easy choice to make.


End file.
